Bad Santa and Coal in My Stocking

First and Foremost:  

I am finally switching the blog to WordPress!  So welcome to the new followers, and I'm so sorry, but your Blogger follow will cease to have meaning after July 1.  However, I hope you will come with me to WordPress, where the commenting is easier and hopefully there are fewer glitches from the administrative end.  Can I get an amen?

I will be posting on both blogs until July 1, and then I'll be switching over solely to WordPress.  Here is the link to the new address - http://www.adayinthewife.com/.  Please make a note of it.

I've been pretty busy for the past week - not only did all of the batshit crazy house projects happen, but I also managed to stalk (and perhaps frighten) an author last weekend at my writer thingy.  Photos were taken, but by a guy named Jim from Tulsa, Oklahoma, and I'm going to wait and see if he comes through with the digital pics he took.  BECAUSE WHY WOULDN'T A GUY FROM TULSA I'VE KNOWN FOR LESS THAN 24 HOURS HONOR HIS PROMISE TO SEND THE PICS HE TOOK OF ME WITH ANOTHER WOMAN?  You have nothing if you don't have faith, people.

Another man I've frightened in the past few weeks is my neighbor, John.  He's a great guy, a bachelor, living in the house he grew up in, but I do suspect he is one of the Feral Cat Club in the neighborhood, where I seem to be the only non-member.  When we first moved into Current House, John made the fatal mistake of giving George the Superpet a Milkbone every time he drove out of the driveway, which runs right next to our backyard fence.  Now, if George hears John's car starting, he begs to be let outside, at which time he barks as though he is going to rip out John's kidney, but I know what George is really saying is "Where is my Goddamned Milkbone?" because George is a now complete Milkbone junkie, thanks to John.  If you're going to start handing out the crack, you can't cut your homies off, because those crackheads will cut. you.

John looks a little bit like Bad Santa.  He drives a sensible SUV, but he has a bottle green convertible Corvette that he takes out on the weekends.  He has a boat.  He likes whiskey.  John love of his boat and Corvette is in direct proportion to his dislike of taking care of his yard.  Including the poison sumac patch he was indirectly cultivating, where I believe the particularly festering neighborhood feral cats would crawl to die.

Neighborhood pack of feral cats waiting for daily 4 p.m. feeding across the street. Honestly, you can't make this stuff up.

If you'll recall, I had boob issues a few weeks back. Web MD diagnosed me with a rare form of ductal cancer, and my Book Club started a Casserole Chain for me and my High School Friend Paige The OB-GYN couldn't diagnose me over the phone because I had accidentally torn the top of my nipple off, so I went in to my doctor. 

DR: "So what seems to be the problem?  You have a sore on your...uh.."
(She is checking chart to be sure this is why I'm there.)
ME:  "My nipple.  It stuck to my bra, and I accidentally tore it off, but now I think it's poison ivy."
DR:  (not following my logic) "Why do you think that?"
ME:  "Because I got poison ivy the day after I tore my nipple off. And now I'm on Prednisone and that's why I'm blowing up like Jerry Lewis."
DR:  "Okay.  Let's take a look at it."

And then it's one of those awkward moments when you're laying on a table all National Georgraphic with your arm up over your head like you're in an oil painting.

This is how I do ALL of my breast exams.

And your doctor is feeling you up, in a purely clinical way, and making small talk with you, like "Is baseball season still going for you guys?" and I'm all, "It must be because you just stole second!" and then I ask about her kids, because really, enough about me.  Then she looks really closely at my nipple, sits me up, high fives me, and says, "Congratulations, you are the first patient I've ever seen with poison ivy on their nipple!"  This is why I love my doctor.  Let's turn a festering sore into a victory. 

She gives me cream and asks about my yard.  We determine that George the Superpet is getting oil on his coat from the poison sumac, which is then getting on my hands, and because I'm so allergic to poison ivy/oak/sumac, if it touches my skin it immediately gets into my bloodstream and BAM! Itchy sores everywhere.  My doctor tells me we should offer to cut the patch down for John, because as long as it's up, my yard is booby trapped.  Seriously.  She says that.  So I have to say, "LITERALLY" and she doesn't even laugh, she just looks down and says, "I can't believe I just gave you that opening."  Me either, Doc.  It's like you don't know me at all.

The last time I had it - big patch on my chest, and all under my chin and second and third chins, and pretty much everywhere else, which is why my doctor made me wear a tube top dress and NOTHING ELSE.  You're welcome, neighbors.

I see John in the yard and I say hi.  He walks over and we chat, and I say something along the lines of "Do you care if we have The Son chop down your Poison Sumac garden?" and he says something like "Oh my gosh, it has poison sumac in it?" and I say something along the lines of "Yeah, George rubs on it and gets the oil on him, and then gives it to me.  I've got it on my chest and arms right now".  He pauses and looks at me, and says, "I'll take it down today."  I protest, because I know he wants to get to his boat, but he won't relent, and spends his day taking the stuff down.

It wasn't until later that day, as John is slaving away in the sun, that I realize I told him George gets the oil on HIM, and that I now have it all over my chest, and I know he has a visual of me rubbing my nakedness all over my oiled up Standard Poodle.

And then I wonder why the neighbors don't talk to us.

CH, You Were Right

You were right, Current Husband.

Did you see that? Savor it, because it's not going to happen again.

I'm sure you're all saying to yourselves, "Self, did she say CH was right?  Because I just don't see how that's possible."

Well, BELIEVE ME, I understand your confusion.  How did this happen?  How did I sink so far?  Let's get in the Way Back Machine to yesterday, when it was MOTHER'S DAY, and therefore all about me.  I was doing a little Hitler-esque directing of gardening activities, because it was my day and I could make everyone tap dance to Candyman while wearing bear costumes if I damn well pleased, but I didn't.  I made the children rip out five errant thorn bushes in the front yard, because as much as they whined and pleaded, what child doesn't secretly love shoveling out thorn bushes?  Right?  Schnell, schnell!  Diggest sie bushes, mein Leibchen!

It was a little sunny out, and I was sweating right through my tank top and ripped up short jean shorts from college (Your shorts, Denato, the ones that got you kicked out of that bar in Florida), and I decided to leave the minions and shop for flowers at Home Depot for the children to plant.  While there, I did a naughty and bought one ice-cold Diet Coke.

Poison!  It's poison, I tell you! 

Beautiful, delicious poison.

So I drink a little - only my second sip in SIX EFFING WEEKS - and CH rides my ass about it when I get home.

CH:  "You didn't."
ME:  "I did."
CH:  "You were so good!  Don't do it!"
ME:  "Oh quit being such a ninny!  I used to drink two cans a day, one little sip won't hurt me."
CH:  "Yes it will."
ME:  "It's Mother's Day, and I'll drink it if I want to drink it."
CH:  "You're going to hate yourself."
ME:  "I don't have a problem, I can quit whenever I want."

And I took a big drink just to show him I could.  He shook his head sadly and walked away.  I was fine.  I conquered this.  I can have a little bit, but I'm not a slave to Diet Coke.  Diet Coke doesn't own me, I own IT!

Until today.  When I started having the terrible gas and the digestive turbulence again.  But CH didn't need to know about that.  Until we were in the dining room and one of the kids walked by and said, "EWW, who smells?  Is that you, George?"

"Own up, bitch, I'm not taking the heat for your stank."

Grr.  "Yes, it's George."   CH looked up from his computer with a smug look on his face.  "I told you," he said softly.  But not so softly that I couldn't hear it.  Or that he wouldn't pay.

Not much later, while he was laughing at innapropriate things on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, I had a bad moment in the bathroom.  It happened as I was starting Sarah Silverman's book, "The Bedwetter".

Oddly enough, I was reading the foreword, where she says that you are probably reading this book while pooping, but that she appreciates you sharing your most intimate and vulnerable moment with her, and that if you take the book one poop at a time, you'll get through it.

CH is in the bedroom, yelling, "I can smell that!  It's the Diet Coke, you know."  Mother.Effer.  Does he have to rub it in?  So I flush, but the memory of my moment is still there.  So I take a notecard and write "I love you" and tape it to the seat.  But then he goes in and doesn't see the notecard, and sits on it, and then it falls into the toilet. 

"JULIE!  DID YOU PUT A NOTE IN HERE?!?"

"Um, no.  George must've done it."

"Seriously?  Must I get blamed for everything? 

There'd better be a treat in this for me."

The joke was on me, as I had to use two bobby pins to fish it out (which I did throw away, Mandatory Reporters).  I'm glad we could share this moment together, Wifers.  It's like you were with me the whole time.  I blame the Coca-Cola company.  Their poisonous chemicals make me so crazy that I overshare.

I hate it that he was right.  Mondays.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 80

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or parents of my children's friends. Or cat vandals.


Today's topic: Hump Day Forever


A few nights ago, my house was quiet. This is newsworthy in that my house is never quiet, but the kids went to bed without protest for a change and I had a little 10 p.m. facebook/Twitter time. I'm happily creeping on other people's pages and reading celebrity tweets when I hear this loud THUNK like a water balloon hit the side of the house, and then Raaaaaarwwwwr RAAAAWWWRRRR!!!!

It was immediatey recognizable as cats having sex, but it sounded oddly like vandalism, like someone did a drive-by and instead of throwing a Moltov Cocktail they threw f**king cats at our house. Who hates us so much they'll throw f**kng cats at the house?

Our neighborhood on a daily basis. 

It's like an opium den of cat sex in the yard.

But most of the feral cats are black

and missing signifcant chunks of fur.

I run downstairs to Current Husband's office and start saying, "Did you hear that?" when it's like they are in the room doing it. RRRAAAAAWWRRR! HISS HISS HISS! THUNK THUNK RAWWWWWWRRRR!!!! It's like the National Cat Fornication Service just activated a Cat Sex warning and the siren is going off.  Take Cover!  Take Cover!  We look at each other with wide eyes, like "Is that what sex sounds like?" because it's been awhile and we've forgotten. CH opens the curtains to the egress window in the basement and lo and behold, total cat sex peep show in our window well.  The cats see CH and they literally shoot four feet into the air, mwowling, and we can hear them howl all the way down the dark street.  We so look forward to increasing our brood of 34 feral cats to 87 this spring.

But lest ye think the mating is over in our hood, fear not, gentle reader.  Everyone in our hood is doing the Humpty Hump.

The other day I walked out to show my sister our crumbling chimney when I glanced over to our neighbor's yard, where their yellow lab was busy mounting a visiting chocolate lab.  This was an arranged date, but Zeus is a little short in the leg and was having trouble getting on his taller date.  What he lacked in height, he made up in stamina, and even without the aid of the doggie sex stilts I recommended to the neighbor, he managed to get the job done more efficiently and with less noise than his feline counterparts.  And?  Zeus is a broad daylight kind of guy.  There's no fear there.  It's a "Check it OUT, neighborhood, I've got balls bigger than your cars!"  Meanwhile, George the Superpet, ball-less wonder, stood at the fence, watching sadly.

The next night, George had his chance at love. 

The neighbor was having a little bonfire and invited me over to have a beer with her.  I brought George the Superpet, and the moment he got inside their gate his gaydar went off and he started humping their male dogs like he'd just done a line of coke at the Stonewall Inn in Grenwich Village while the DJ played Lady Gaga.  He was just born this way.  The neighbor's two male, un-neutered labs had to lay down on the grass so George couldn't hump them, and then he just walked around for a bit air-humping.  My neighbor and I were laughing, but I felt a little sorry for him.  He's so repressed, and everyone around him gets to have sex while he's stuck in the house watching the Disney Channel. 

George, mounting Grandma Jan at Christmas. 

Awkward for everyone.

So, in sum:
1.  Someone is throwing f**king cat bombs at our house in some weird kind of hate crime.
2.  Short dogs have bigger mojo.
3.  George the Superpet is a repressed sex machine.

Spring has sprung, people.  Get out there and enjoy it like an animal.

 

Orange You Glad Your Walls Are White?

See all of the junk piled up on the left?  That's my next project.  There is a reason for the butt-ass ugly chair to the left as well - that is George the Superpet's chair.  You do NOT mess with George's chair.  I reliquished that to him years ago.  He likes to lay in it and look out the patio door next to it and stare at the feral cats and dream about killing them.  I won't take that away from him.

So very orange.  Just as orange as some of the paint on my Dad's tin ferris wheel.  Yay!  We live in the Fun House!  Now I just need a creepy clown painting on velvet.  Tempting.

You can see the trim I need to paint white now.  I can't take it that there are two different tones.   I think I'm also going to have to build a white mantel/fireplace surround for this room.  CH doesn't really agree, but I know what's coming. It will be something I do when I have other, more important things to get done, and then I will panic and cry because "There just isn't enough time!"  But no.  Not this year.  This is the Shake It Out/Paint it Orange year.  I shall make a margarita and say "C'est La Vie!"

Right?

Where IS Everything?

Merry Christmas Wifers!

I know, I'm an ass and haven't posted, but I think of the blog often.  And then I say, "Meh.  I'm drinking right now."  (NOTE TO MY MOTHER:  No Mom, I'm not drinking all the time.  I don't have a problem.  And perhaps I'm drinking Diet Coke?  I never said it was booze.  Who has the problem NOW?  Take a look at yourself.  What's in your hand?  That's what I thought.)

Really, I've meant to post, and I have a few great things to share, but I can't find my cord to download photos off of my Blackberry.  And then I can't find my charger.  And then I can't find my phone.  In the past week I've lost keys, gifts, eyeliner, a Starbucks gift card, $1400 in credit card receipts for a hooker convention, a red sweater, and my favorite jeans.  Just now, I helped Youngest Daughter through a lost DS emergency, and then I couldn't find my Mike's Hard Lemonade.  I can't find the receipt for the custom door we ordered for Current Husband's office now that we need to pick it up, and I'm losing my mind!  WTF, Universe?  I know there are people in the world battling cancer and depression and oppression and erosion, so I know I need a perspective check, but seriously, WHERE THE HELL IS MY BLACKBERRY CORD?

We had a great Christmas here in Wiferville.  It was all awesomeness and unicorns and ponies.  The kids were great, we had a wonderful bunker-down weekend, Christmas Eve Mass was uncharacteristically short, we sat behind a cute baby, the weather was great and we didn't run out of Gruet or cheesy potato casserole and no major appliances broke or malfunctioned in any way. 

Downside?  I may have undercooked portions of the ham and therefore my family may or may not have trichinosis.  Also?  I got my period four days early and had to go to Walgreens on Christmas Day to buy 60 Super Plus tampons and 48 Super tampons and 48 super maxi pads and a box of Dots and Aleve and a handgun, because honestly it was a Ten Year Period and it's a miracle I didn't need a transfusion or Depends.  The checkout girl said, "How is your Christmas going?" and I looked down at my 108 tampons that were getting me through the next 48 hours and said, "Yeah.  It's shaping up really well right now" and she looked at me in a pityingly way and said, "But you have the Dots!" and then I felt bad because at least I was hemorrhaging to death at home and in flannel sock monkey pajamas and not doing it at Walgreens on duty.  So I said, "It's great, I'm so glad you were open, thanks for working on Christmas!" and she smiled and probably thought, "Yeah, thanks for rubbing it in.  Go eat some more of that Death Ham, bitch."

I have to find that cord because I have a photo on my phone of one of my best Christmas presents EVER.  I'll get right on it.  Side note - super big scare tonight with George the Superpet - my kids called me at work at 4:10, yelling that I need to come home RIGHT NOW because George wasn't using his back leg, was walking like he was drunk, and threw up yellow stuff and then laid down on the floor.  I walked out of the office, freaking out, and on the way home called and told the kids to call the vet that I was bringing him in and I thought, "Dear God, Do NOT let me come home to a dead dog."  I screeched up to the house, threw open the back of the swagga wagon, and tried to figure out how I was going to get a catatonic stroking-out 107 lb poodle in the back by myself, and when I opened the door he came trotting around the corner smiling and wagging and miraculously all better.

BUT STILL.

As an FYI, when I lose George the Superpet, I will NOT. COPE. WELL.  He is only 5, so this kind of behavior is ridonkulous and I won't stand for it.  We've been watching him all night and he is acting perfectly normal, but of course I'm hearing the Voice of Unreason in the back of my head.  I can lose Blackberry cords and eyeliner and Starbucks cards, but the one non-human thing I can't lose right now is my dog.  CH, you have been demoted.  George gets the bed tonight.  Poor little poochie-pie.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 72.5

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or anyone who lives within 10 miles of me.



Today's topic: The Pussy Wagon is Full

Confession - I'm a total tease.  Today isn't whorish, full of or showing any vaginas.  I'm on Day One of my "time" and no one around me is getting sex.  NO ONE.  I'm sorry men expecting porn, you may now go back to searching for the nude Scarlett Johansson photos.  For everyone else...

CAT PORN.

I think I've mentioned before that my neighborhood is crawling with pussy. 

Well those days have come to an end.  Last weekend when I was at my hooker convention in Nebraska, the animal control wagon pulled up and got loaded up to the gills in pussy.  Someone finally called the po-po and reported that our street had literally 30+ cats running around, and when there is that much pussy on the street there is bound to be infection.  Hide your husbands, hide the kids.  The street was lined with cat traps.

Most of our family was happy with this news, not so much because we are cat haters (but some of us are) but because it is hard for one neighborhood to feed, sustain, medicate and deliver 30 cats to music and dance lessons.  However, it upset Youngest Daughter.  She started freaking out, and Current Husband, who was running the asylum in my absence, couldn't figure out why.  Finally, he talked her off the ledge, and she got a coherent sentence out: 

"GET GEORGE IN THE HOUSE, THEY'RE ROUNDING UP PETS!"

Does this look like a feral cat to you?

Youngest Daughter perhaps had a point.  To calm her down, and to be sure we didn't lose The Best Standard Poodle Ever, CH called George the Superpet into the house, where he watched the feral cats get loaded up and carted off with a look that could only be described as satisfaction.
Thank you, Animal Control!  Our tax dollars at work, freeing our neighborhood from this:

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, have a great weekend!

The Suprise Puppy Caper

Hello friends!  Thanks for your sweet comments in the past week about me Mum, who is slightly unhappy about breaking her pelvis.

Let me just say that it is very worrisome to find out your parent has broken something major.  It's very odd to see your parent looking vulnerable and scared, and it freaks you out a bit.  Here are some things I learned from this experience:

1. Have a sibling who is a First Responder.
2. Don't make jokes in the hospital room, not usually a very receptive audience.
3. If your father speaks of loading people up with sedatives and a catheter, make sure your doctor knows NOT to release you to his care.
4. Having an audience to use the bathroom isn't fun for ANYONE.
5. I'm still allergic to Nebraska.

In The Secret Bungalow Mystery, Nancy finds out that trusty Hannah Gruen twisted her ankle while caring for the Drews' home and personal effects.  Nancy runs home to care for Hannah, which means making her a light lunch of delicious chicken salad on a croissant and mandarin oranges, and excusing her from the day's housekeeping duties.  Nowhere in that book does it mention that Nancy helps Hannah get her pants off or go to the bathroom, because that would be a little uncomfortable in the Mad Men era.

Fortunately, Mom is on the road to recovery.  Youngest Daughter and I both got sick in Nebraska, I think because we are both allergic to Goldenrod, the state flower, and cottonwood trees.  We came home on Sunday night and we brought this:

Meet Shiloh.  She's a 6 month old Labradoodle.

She is Mom's dog, now our foster dog for the month.

Shiloh and YD play.  And Shiloh ate Harry Potter the Lego.

 Shiloh and George the Superpet play. George is a bit fat and out of shape.

The only mystery this week is how long will George the Superpet be able to last.

Next To Last Day!

It's Day 30 of A Month of Blogging, and honestly I can't believe I did it every day.  I'm usually full of empty promises, made after a couple of glasses of wine, but here I am. Know why?  Do ya?  It's because I like you people I don't even know very well.  You make me laugh.  And that's why even though I can't exercise or diet or even get my kids to places on time, I've managed to blog for two years.  OMG, there's a lot of love on the Internet.  Some of it is love I don't want to know about.  Dirty love.  But not here.  This is good, clean, S&M-free love.  MOST OF THE TIME.  But when the leather chaps come on, I will beat the crap out of you, and you will LIKE IT, Wifers.

Did I just say that out loud?  I've had a beer, and I'm over 42, so all bets are off.

Oldest Daughter and I have an idea for a new CD - it's called "Your Mom Sings Your Favorites", and it's full of popular songs on the radio that I manage to butcher.  For example, Neon Trees' Animal - "Say Goodbye to my heart tonight!" which is actually "Take a bite of my heart tonight".  Or most songs by Gaga.  I manage to mess up a few words in those.  I told OD I'm gonna sing 'em loud and sing 'em proud, because I am 42 and I don't have to sing in tune OR know the words.  I've pushed three human beings out of my vajayjay and been a telemarketer renewing NRA memberships in 1985, so does messing up a Gaga song bother me?  Negative, Ghost Rider.

I took the day off tomorrow, as comp time for my week at the Hooker Convention, and I am so damn excited I can barely stand it.  I'm driving middle schoolers to school tomorrow, and then after 8 a.m. I am free to do what I wish until 1 p.m., because there is an early out tomorrow.  I'm not exactly sure what will happen, but I know it will involve Starbucks, taking off my bra, music blaring in the house, and George the Superpet staring at me with a concerned look on his face.

If you're in the area, stop by!

UPDATE:  I just posted this, and immediately the ads on Adsense changed to "Buy Leather Chaps!"  Everyone, go out and buy your leather chaps, on me!  Let's all be the dominant party on this blog!  It's now an S&M party!

I'm Having a Shot for Breakfast

Hello Wifers!

I'm finally back home from the Hooker Convention, which was very fun but tiring.  Hooking takes a LOT of energy.

I arrived at home around 11 p.m. to some happy kids and an even happier Current Husband.  He was actually waiting on the front step when I pulled up.  Of course, I'm all monthly today, CH's luck just ran out.  Not to mention my bitchiness.  George the Superpet is happy though, because this is the time of the month that he hopes someone leaves a bathroom door open so he can rip the garbage apart looking for treasure.  I'm sorry George, I love you, but sometimes dogs are pretty damn gross.

Today, my parents stopped by on their way home from Ohio (they came to the Hooker Convention too, but to see relatives, not for the hooking) and we went out for dinner at Texas Roadhouse, which is sort of our joke because their permanent residence is in Texas, so they drive to Iowa to eat at a Texas Roadhouse.  I know, it's SUPER funny if you're here.  Well, not even then really.  I was a complete glutton and pounded back a 6 ounce filet and loaded baked potato and a Ceasar salad and those damn rolls and a margarita, while my vegetarian daughters ate salad and potatoes and watched me kill myself.  Mongo like steak!  CH looked at the kids like, "Just sit quietly and no sudden movements, it's her time of the month and she is holding a steak knife."

We got home and I decided since I was gone all week, I would do some work in our basement.  We are getting our basement finished, and CH and I decided we would save some money and tear down the current walls ourselves.  How hard can it be?  Well, kind of hard, actually.  I was picking up big chunks of drywall and MOTHERF***ER, I grabbed a rusty nail and punctured my finger.  I had to call Mom and find out if I HAD to get a tetanus shot tonight or if I could wait until tomorrow, because Mom is a nurse, and she said, "I can't remember if it's 12 hours or 24 hours that you need to get it.  And I can't remember if it's 5 or 10 years since you've had your last booster if you need to get another shot.  I'm sure you'll be fine, but if you wake up and your fingers are all twisted, go to the ER."

So Reassuring.

This is from the nurse who would make Hamburger Helper for lunch on Saturday, leave it in the pan on the stove all day, and then warm it up again for dinner, so I'm not always sure if I should be taking her medical advice, but I call My Friend Paige The OB too often about stupid shit like this, and besides, I think her service is blocking me after I drunk dialed them, so I'm taking my chances and waiting until morning.

If you don't hear from me again, it's because I turned into Cujo overnight and I'm frothing at the mouth and have trapped my neighbors in their '84 Ford Escort and am on a first-name basis with the pack of 39 feral cats who live on my street.  I'll miss you people.

Day 10 - Teens in a Mall

Before I begin, I'd like to point out a theme in our house.  Now that I'm blogging every day this month, I tend to either write my post at work (sorry employer!), or more likely, at 10 p.m. when everyone has seemingly settled in for the night.  Every night this month that I have been in my studio room, some member of my family has followed me downstairs to talk.

"Mom?  I might have a gland that needs to be expressed."

School starts in these parts on Monday.  Of course, I am unprepared.  Just today I found a ride home for my high schooler, and I still haven't signed her up for the bus as the backup plan.  I just scheduled her golf lessons, and got her cello lessons set up.  I still have to call about the cello case that is overdue, and she doesn't have a lunch bag, an important accessory for a two-year vegetarian.  The Son and Youngest Daughter both need tennis shoes for PE, and YD can't wear flip flops to school so I need non-flip-flop shoes for her.  I can't sign either of them up for piano until Monday.  No one has money in their PaySchools account for lunches, and I'm leaving Tuesday morning for a week-long hooker convention in Mennonite country in Ohio.  Current Husband is in charge of everything.  OY.

If I were to interview for a paid position as "Stay-At-Home Mom", up against other resumes, there is NO WAY I would get the job.  That SAHM Mom job is tough, don't kid yourself.  In addition to the normal laundry-meals-activities-homework-housework-sex stuff, there is added pressure to volunteer and give of yourself to the world at large, because what could you possibly be doing at home? Seriously, my five years at home were some of the hardest because I thought I could do everything, and felt like it was expected.  Now I actually get paid to work, and I while I still do my turn as nail-painter and donater-of-cookies at school functions, I don't feel guilty if I can't.

So, tonight I took Oldest Daughter and The Son to the dreaded mall.  We bought some PE shoes that can stay at the school for PE, and a few shirts for school.  I got to browse through The Gap while OD and TS went to Hollister and Abercrombie, I bought some perfume at Von Maur ("I'd like a bottle of Happy, please."  It was fun to say, and I half hoped they'd pull a bottle of Tanqueray from behind the counter) and then met the teens at American Eagle.  The Son found a pair of shades he liked.

"These are beast, mom," he said.
"Are these for you?" the teenage, tattoed checkout girl asked.
"Yeah."  The Son got a bit of swagger.
"Are you going to rock these shades?  Because if you aren't I won't sell them to you."
The Son was shocked.  Was this teen girl *talking* to him?  "Um, yeah."
I saw a tester for a men's body spray and sprayed a little on TS.  "Hey!"
"It's on sale for $5 a bottle...you will be fighting the girls off," said Tattoed Teen.
(Wow.  She's good.)
"Is it like AXE Squared?" I asked.
"Oh yeah.  The girls will go crazy." She said with a smug nod.
"Well then we don't want any.  I Taser girls." 
"WHAT!?"  The Son was mortified.  I was stomping on his buzz.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes."
"Then you better smell like $5 every time you put it on.  No girls."

I paid for it, laughing a little, but inside I was freaking out.  Holy shit.  He really is getting close to dating age, and some little tramp is going to take MY place someday.  I'm not ready.  I still eat this kid up every day.  Why is it so different when it's your son?  The girls I'm not worried about.  OD is a good girl and has a strong constitution so she'll make it through the heartaches, and YD will be the breaker, not the breakee.  I will be consoling her ex-boyfriends.  "It's not you, it's her.  You'll be better off, trust me."  But The Son?  He's my buddy!  She can't have him!  He's MINE!

This is how I will see him forever. 

Which is going to get irritating to everyone.

But seriously, isn't he CUTE?

I guess he's going to Middle School, and he's going to grow up, and his voice is going to change and he'll get girlfriends and move away.  I've always known it's coming, but why is it suddenly seeming so much closer?

This?  This is why I'm eating ice cream every night.  Out of sadness and a need to become so huge and suger-rushed that I will terrify every girl who comes to our house.  And girls?  I do own a Taser gun.  And a stuffed squirrel that will CUT. YOU.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 68

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats.



Today’s topic: Random Acts of Whoreness

Hello Mom and her two non-English speaking co-workers who actually read this blog.  I've missed the three of you.  Well actually, I haven't, because I've been with you in Nebraska all week, Mom.  (Juanita and Lupe, you are on your own.)  This is why I can't breathe and am having the second-hand smoke tar scraped out of my lungs tomorrow.  But I know you crack the kitchen window open because you love me, Mom.

Not Whoreticulturey, but adorable, no?

OD and George the Superpet, ready for takeoff!

Last week, my mom flew from Padre Island to her summer home in Elkhorn, Nebraska, because who doesn't dream of a summer home in Nebraska?  This trip has been planned since March.  Mom arrived on Wednesday.  On Saturday night, Dad showed up somewhat unexpectedly, but not TOTALLY unexpectedly, because this is how he operates.  He makes a last minute decision and then drives 20 hours straight to "surprise" everyone.  We all know that he pees in a bottle when he makes these trips, but we have a "don't ask, don't tell" policy about it in our family.  

True Story:  One time he traded in his pickup for a new one when he arrived in town and forgot to take the bottle out.  The great part is that he wasn't mortified that the service guys found a jug of his urine; he was mad because mom got that one from the hospital for him.  It was custom.  I think this goes a LONG way toward explaining why I turned out this way.  Sorry Gaga.  I wasn't born this way.  I was purposely molded into the dysfunctional person I am today.

This is a recap of my week in Nebraska, with random appropriate bits for Whoreticulture Friday.  You could say this week is the ADHD version.

Three hours into the trip on Interstate 80, fourth Hummer truck:
Current Husband:  "You ever think about driving that big rig?"
Me:  "I'm pretty sure that truck can drive itself."
CH:  "But I bet it would be fun...."
Me:  "Step on it and I'll see if the driver is interested in giving you a spin."

Dear Grocery Store:  Do not put bright pink signs on your produce that say, "NICE MELONS" and not expect me to pick them up and fondle them.  Or put the sign on myself.  Or make my teenage daughter take the picture.  Or not pull my shirt down so as to hide the jelly rolls I'm sporting.  It's businesses such as yours that force me to be immature.  The melons, by the way, are real, and they are SPECTACULAR.

Speaking of melons....

 This is Paige the OB-GYN, my high school friend who terrifies me with her stories about uteruses (uteri??) falling out of people who don't do Kegels (let's all do one together...clench...and...RELEASE).  We got together at our friend Meem's house in Omaha on the 4th, and Paige brought her Tit Coozie.  But apparently she skipped kindergarten, because she didn't bring enough for everyone.  Do you know me AT ALL, Paige?  I get to see my high school posse in November in Austin, Texas, and I expect a gyno-swag-bag.

(Running off to trademark that name.)

The trip ended with CH and I attending The Black Keys concert in Council Bluffs, Iowa.  CH and I arrived at the concert area to find that it was:

1. An outdoor venue.
2. With no seating.
3. And it had been raining all day.

So we bought a poncho to sit on the grassy knoll, and after four or five Blue Moons, the above picture is how I actually saw the concert.  (Don't look into the light, Carol Ann!  Run away from the light!)  No, I'm kidding, I spent the entire concert rambling drunkenly to CH about how awesome Pat Carney plays drums, and how amazing Dan Auerbaugh is on guitar, and singing loudly, and then, you know what's coming, DANCING. 

How do these two dorky-looking white dudes

from Ohio make such big, fat-ass blues?  How?

Then we went to the slot machines (big, big mistake) and then I made CH walk me to the band bus to see if I could snag a Key to get in a blog picture.  But it wasn't meant to be, because my Dad was there to pick us up, smoking and honking in his Buick Enclave in the casino valet driveway.  Did I mention that I'm 42, and I had my Dad drive me and my boyfriend to a concert, and then pick us up at midnight?  I felt like it was 1984 and I was seeing Def Leppard when the drummer had both arms.  THAT old school, baby.

And thus concludes this episode of "What I Did on My Nebraska Vacation".  I hope you all had a fantastic Fourth of July, and none of you had the firework I have re-named "The Dancing Grandchildren" due to it's sudden and unexpected shooting of fireballs straight out 50 feet in all directions toward the screaming and terrified children.  No grandchildren, grandparents, or animals were harmed in the lighting of said firework.

One more bit of randomness, not necessarily whorish in nature?  I have a whole new respect for Olivia Wilde, actress and apparent Honey Badger fan:

In case you missed it, I found this little gem of joy through The Bloggess, and it deserves a second viewing.  It just brings a smile to my face.  Honey Badger don't care, Honey Badger don't give a shit!  I need this t-shirt.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday Wifers, and have a great weekend!

UPDATE FRIDAY 3 p.m. - Many of my friends eschew the comments section, which never works and is impossible, and e-mail their comments to me.  This one, from a college friend who came home with me one Easter, was impossible for me not to post.  This is Hand To God true:

"You kill me! I choked on my pretzel laughing about your dad and his "custom jug!" I totally remember going to church with you, and your dad had a beer t-shirt on under his jacket!"

 Seriously people.  You can't make this shit up.

Call of the Sirens

Current Husband always seems to know when to get the hell out of Dodge.

Growing up in Nebraska, I loved tornadoes.  My parents, being the responsible people they were in the mid-70's, would have people over, light candles and cigarettes, crack open the booze, and have a party.  We'd all stand outside, or right in front of the eight huge plate-glass windows in my house that looked over the lake, and watch the storm roll in.  Yay!  Fun!

I had Oldest Daughter in 1997, and my first tornado warning came when she was about three months old.  Instead of the rush of adrenaline I usually felt, I was shocked to feel abject terror.  "WHERE IS THE DIAPER BAG? WHERE IS THE BLANKET? WHERE IS THE CAR SEAT?  WHERE IS THE DOG?  WHERE IS OUR WILL?  WHERE IS THE BABY!?!?"  I sat huddled in the corner of our basement, surrounded by water bottles, flashlights, baby supplies, and the phone, lying over the top of the baby strapped in the car seat, praying to the Jesus of my youth.  CH?  He was at work.  He didn't even know there was a tornado warning.  No Yay.  No Fun.  I'm sure I probably yelled at him later, because clearly he should have driven home in a Tornado Warning so we could all die together.  I wasn't exactly lucid back then.

Fast forward to yesterday.  Current Husband has a trip to Chicago planned, so he leaves.  He calls around 4 p.m. to say that the weather is looking rough in our area, so keep an eye on The Weather Channel.  Okay, sure, Thanks Junior Meteorologist.  Sure enough, around 6 p.m. our tornado sirens go off.

I INTERRUPT THIS BLOG TO
BITCH ABOUT OUR SIREN SYSTEM
In the past year or so, the Quad Cities has changed their warning system so that the sirens go off when there is a Thunderstorm Warning AND a Tornado Warning.  Let me tell you how Quad Citians have reacted to this change - they now ignore the siren.  When we moved here five or six years ago, if that siren went off, it not only blared, but there was a Hitler-like voice that yelled with it, no shit, that said something along the lines of, "This is a Tornado Warning.  Take shelter immediately!" AND YOU DID IT.  It might as well have yelled "SCHNELL!  SCHNELL!  ACHTUNG SIE BITTEN!" because you knew something wicked this way comes.  Now?  You hear the siren and think, "When I finish this chapter I'll get up and make sure it isn't a Tornado Warning."  It's the equivalent of crying wolf.  It's a Storm Warning System Fail.  The end.

BACK TO PRESENT DAY...actually, yesterday...
So I round up the kids, a comforter, my laptop, my purse, and the dog, and head downstairs.  Why my purse?  Because it has my cell phone, my cash, my ID, my credit and debit cards, my car keys, my reading glasses, Tums, Zyrtec, cough drops, Aleve, my Von Maur card...all of the things one needs in an emergency.  I get the kids and George the Superpet in what seems to be a safe room, and open my laptop so I can be a stormtracker on weather.com, but of course, pictures of Joplin, Missouri pop up on the screen, and my kids FREAK. OUT.  I explain that is not a picture of our weather here, and then try and talk them off the ledge.

I turn on our flashlight/weather radio, and the National Weather Service is announcing where the wall cloud/funnel has been spotted, and what do you know? THE TORNADO IS CALLING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE.  Or it might as well be.  Now I'm a little nervous.  CH starts literally phoning it in.  He is texting, "how are you guys?" and "hang in there" and "it's almost over", which in some ways is really sweet and in some ways I'm thinking, "If you are texting from Dick's Last Resort on Navy Pier with a bucket of Bud Light I will kill you."

George the Superpet finds this an appropriate time to start dog-farting, which quickly earns him a spot Outside of The Comforter.  I don't need a Dutch Oven from my dog in times of crisis.  Youngest Daughter decides this would be an appropriate time to develop restless leg syndrome, and The Son thinks maybe he should lie down and listen to Eminem on his iPod - "Lose yourself in the moment, you own it, you better never let it go...."  Oldest Daughter can't wait to bust out of the Panic Room, and she is rolling her eyes so much I wonder if she is having a seizure.  Nope.  Still just a teenager.  False alarm.

After 45 minutes of this Quality Time, the sirens stop and we emerge unscathed.  Youngest Daughter begs to sleep with me in CH's spot, and I acquiese, because it will be nice to have someone there, but at 2 a.m., after four hours of nonstop kicking, I cry uncle and move her to her bed.  I go to work this morning on under 5 hours of sleep, and had to do a cello lesson run and a baseball game tonight.  I was Really. Really. Tired.

How do they end up sideways?  This was taken at midnight,

so CH could see what he was missing.

At the baseball game, it's the top of the 6th and our team is losing, and the opposing team's coach has his undies in a bunch for some reason and is complaining to the umpire, and I take a look around.  It's a lovely spring night.  The park is green and there are beautiful tall trees all around us.  There are kids playing ball on three fields I can see, and I watch people walking their dogs to the nearby dog park. 

And then I think of the people in Joplin, Missouri, and my heart breaks.

Their night is nothing like mine.  Those horrible pictures of the neighborhoods and hospital all smashed, the trees all torn up and stripped of bark, the cars tossed all over and flattened, the death toll.  My husband texted that he loved us, and I am so grateful that we are okay and able to tell him we love him back in person when he returns.  We can bicker about petty calls in baseball, and drive back to our homes when the game is over and know where we will sleep tonight.  So I made a donation to The American Red Cross, who show up in domestic times of disaster, are able to mobilize quickly, get people in touch with their loved ones, and get them immediate shelter.  Here is information from their website, at http://www.redcross.org/:

The Red Cross depends on financial donations to help in times of disaster. Those who want to help people affected by disasters like tornadoes, floods and wildfires, as well as countless crises at home and around the world, can make a donation to support American Red Cross Disaster Relief. This gift enables the Red Cross to prepare for and provide shelter, food, emotional support and other assistance in response to disasters. Visit www.redcross.org or call 1-800-RED-CROSS; people can also text the word “REDCROSS” to 90999 to make a $10 donation. Contributions may also be sent to local American Red Cross chapters or to the American Red Cross, P.O. Box 37243, Washington, DC 20013.

Texting the $10 donation was easy easy easy.  I should do it again and again until CH speeds back to wrest the phone from my charitable hand.  But he isn't here now, is he?  If everyone would just do that easy $10 text one time?  A big big difference, not just for good old Mizzou, but for the recent disasters across the South as well. 

Have a good week, Wifers, and in the words of Edward Cullen, "Be Safe".

Best in Show

On Friday, I went to the doctor and found out that I have yet another respiratory infection, which results in me hacking up gross things the size of a marble and coughing all night.  If I wasn't sexy enough, this is putting me over the top.  It's unfair, really.  The doctor put me on Zithromax and a bumped up inhaler to Albuterol, and told me to use the neti-pot and take Zyrtek.  I was telling a friend about this and realized, "Oh holy shit, I'm so old all I can talk about are my medical problems."  I should be in a deli, getting lox and bagels and saying, "Oy, Levi, my chest, it feels like I have a matzo ball stuck in it."

I decided I needed to rally.  We went to a friend's house for dinner, and this friend happens to own three lovely Corgis and shows them.  In the discussion, we found that she was actually in the middle of a two-day show, and asked The Son if he would like to tag along to help.  Dogs?  Helping?  His sisters weren't asked? Of course he's in!

Our friend picked him up at 7:30 a.m.  On Sunday mornings, I'm not quite lucid then, so I waved goodbye, braless and in my pajama shorts, and crawled back in bed.  I told our friend I would be there between 9 and 10 to check out the show and get The Son.  At 9 a.m., I decided to take a shower, so we didn't get out the door until 9:45, and then I realized I needed $5 cash to get into the show.  Youngest Daughter went with me, and immediately announced in the car that she needed Kleenex and possibly Skittles.  I stopped at the nearest convenience store, a Dollar General, and bought Kleenex with the idea that I could get cash.  In the checkout lane, I didn't get the cash option when I ran my debit card. "We don't offer that anymore."  Crap.  Okay, I need some Kilz primer for my basement walls, so I pulled up at the next store, K&K Hardware.  I ran inside with YD, bought a gallon of Kilz, a brush, and some flamingo stringed lights because they appealed to the white trash in me.  I'm in the checkout lane, and $50 later I discover they also do not give cash back for debit cards.  WHA?  Now I'm 30 minutes late and out $80 total. 

There is a bank across the street from the hardware store.  I decide to bite the bullet on the ATM fees and just get out some cash.  I get my $5, all is well, I'm driving toward the Expo Center and...NO.  You have GOT to be kidding me.  I get my period.  On my way to a warehouse full of dogs, who will all look up when I walk in, lift their noses in the air, sniff, and then bark out, "Tough break, lady." Or try to hump me.  But these are well behaved dogs, and they neither bark nor hump.  At least not without a command or a treat.

I tour the facility with Youngest Daughter, and I'm dying.  Most of the people showing dogs there appear to be normal, lovely people who love dogs.  But some of them?  Are from the movie "Best in Show". 

It's real, people. 

My friend informed me the night before that Best in Show is actually closer to a documentary than fictitious movie.  George the Superpet would last about a minute in here before he would be escorted out in shame.  I tried to take pictures, and then I tried to upload them, but so far all I've ended up with is this picture and a crashed Blackberry:

This is of a whole line of dogs being groomed,

but of course, Techno Granny can't get the shot.

I got a picture of a woman with her dog by her side and her dog grooming comb stuck in the top of her ponytail.  I got a picture of some Maltese with their ponytail on top and their side fur from their jowls all wrapped up so it didn't ruin the grooming (and when I asked the owner if I could take their picture she said in a very fatigued and put-upon way, "Thank you for asking!").  I got a picture of about 6 adorable St. Bernards lined up.  I did not get a picture of the couple bickering in front of me about how maybe the dog didn't do well because of the handler, not the dog.  I did not get a picture of the woman in her floor-length hot pink North Face parka with her Chanel sunglasses and Gwen Stefani lipstick, barking orders at her male companion while he blow-dried the Scottish Terrier they seemed to claim.  I did not get a picture of the woman fastening silver halogenic David Bowie-esque "Ground Control to Major Tom" capes around her brindle Boxers.  I did not get the best in show of the pictures to be had.

And that, my friends, is a Damn Shame.

The closest I've come to a dog show before this is watching the Westminster Dog Show with Current Husband in the dating/early years of our marriage, when we would make strawberry dacquiris and eat nachos while wagering which dog was going to win.  I highly recommend a dog show to anyone who hasn't been.  There is an agility competition nearby on Father's Day weekend, and I'm going to cut a hole in one of my purses for a secret Dog Cam, and get the dacquiris chilling.



The Great Negotiator

I see I've been remiss this week in my blog life. Effing full time job. 

I love my job, but man, I had a good gig when I was home full time.  Yes, I did lots of dishes and laundry and swept the dust bunnies under the couch and leafed through every paper that came home from school and made cookies and volunteered, but there were lots of days when George the Superpet and I would spoon in bed at 3 p.m. and take a quick nap together until the kids walked in at 3:30, or George the Superpet and I would read novels on my dreamy huge screened in back porch and drink coffee, or my neighbor would come over and have a frosty beer at 2:30 and we'd watch the preschool girls play in the backyard until school was getting out, and I could blog blog blog to my heart's content.

*sigh*  I miss those days.

My parents have a grapefruit grove in Texas, part of their crazy retirement menagerie, and last week they told me the grapefruit are ripe and ready to be picked, but the picker foreman couldn't come to their grove because he couldn't find any pickers to work for him.  He has used illegals, but doesn't anymore because they get busted, but he said anyone with a US social security number won't work for him because then they'll jeapordize their welfare payments.  Hmmm.  Why, as a stay at home mom, wasn't I getting paid to stay home and raise my kids?  Sounds like a pretty good deal.  "I can't work because then the government won't pay me."  But I'm not bitter and that's what's important, and now I am working full time and paying taxes to the government.  Thus concludes the first ever "ADITW Political Moment!"  And don't think for a moment that you can guess what I am politically because I am a mutt.  It confounds all of my liberal and conservative friends.

SO - BACK TO THE POINT OF THE BLOG TODAY

Last Tuesday was Youngest Daughter's birthday, so the world stopped for a few days while we had a bank holiday and celebrated.  She turned 8, and I can see how the youngest ones own you.  I look at the teenager, and the pre-teen, and then I look at this little pixie with princess pajamas and Littlest Pet Shop undies and a billion stuffed animals in her room and I realize those days are coming to an end, and the next chapter is looming.  As long as you have young kids, you can be young as well.  I'm going to blink and be an empty nester waiting for my knee replacement.

Current Husband and I took YD to get a new bike, because her last bike was about two feet tall and had training wheels.  On the way to get the bike, CH and I had to power up at Starbucks and got YD some coffee cake.  When I walk to the table, CH and YD are in deep discussion.  I ask what they are talking about.

CH:  "She is telling me why she should get her ears pierced early."
YD:  "Yeah, because everyone in my class has them and I don't and I look like a baby."
ME:  "You don't look like a baby."
YD:  "Even BABIES have their ears pierced and I don't."

CH looks at me and winks, like "let's go ahead and do it."

ME: (caving) "Well, it's a lot of responsibility.  Can you handle it?"
YD:  "Yes, I will keep them clean and take care of them, I promise."
ME:  "Getting ears pierced is a Big Girl thing, like cleaning your room.  If you get your ears pierced, you'll have to keep your room clean."

SCREECH!

YD:  "Alright! I won't get my ears pierced!"
ME:  (stunned) "Wait a minute.  Do you mean that if I was going to get your ears pierced right now, but it means you have to clean your room, you'll say no?"
YD:  "You guys are just looking for a reason to say no anyway."
ME:  "Well I was going to get your ears pierced, but now I know you aren't ready."

I must admit that as a bona fide Bad Housekeeper, I respect her aversion to cleaning her room.  There are books to be read!  Things to do!  The room will just get messed up again anyway, right?  But part of the reason I had three kids was to get some help cleaning the damn house, and now they are jumping ship?  No way, Jose.

We spent the next hour picking out a bike and basket and bell, and YD started to reconsider her position.  She dropped little comments about how she could probably keep her room clean, and how she really should get her ears pierced.  I'm weak.  We pulled into Claire's and let them pierce her for the first time.  She was very brave and proud, and I felt a victory.  It takes very little to make younger kids happy.  It's much tougher with the older ones.  And even though CH and I consider ourselves to err on the side of discipline, I realized I was having these philosophical thoughts about age and happiness as I was cleaning YD's room before her friends came over.

I am such a sucker. 

Happy Birthday YD!